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Many contemporary readers will have plenty of misgivings to overcome while reading The Western Canon. Though he isn’t always right, Bloom proceeds with a steamrolling certainty. The reader must accept that Bloom will repeat himself constantly; must accept, too, that Bloom is waging a pyrrhic rhetorical war he believes he has already lost. And yet, these are legitimate (if old-fashioned) literary modes: they only add to the gloriously fraught pathos that thrums through the whole book. When seen this way—as the hortatory orations of a beautiful, sad dinosaur—the book takes on its own decaying and tragic grandeur, like a ruined Gothic cathedral. And the sermon most often takes the form of a lamentation, the center of which lies in a passage from the opening prelude to the elegy: